


Breathe Electric

by subchesters



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Manhandling, Marking, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:23:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aoba would rather hide his face in shame than admit everything out loud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Electric

**Author's Note:**

> So, one day while lying in bed, I was like, "what if Aoba had a secret size!kink?" and then lo and behold a few hours later, this happens.
> 
> [covers face] this is so self-indulgent and I'm so gross but I don't care [covers face even more]
> 
> Self-beta'd, all mistakes are mine, y'all know the drill.

Late Tuesday morning, nothing in between here and there, all miles between here and nowhere they have to be.

Aoba has a mouthful of morning breath, spread over his tongue, wedged between his teeth but that doesn't matter (how unimportant), not when Koujaku's spread over the surface of his senses, his body encased with sleep-ridden warmth. There's a leftover residue of Koujaku under his tongue, lingers pressed to the roof of his mouth from the previous night, old salt and skin and all things Koujaku preserved in a sensory memory, pressed against the flat of his tongue.

It's when Aoba drifts from under this murky, darkened space of stagnant oblivion, there's light through a window; it means it's earlier than he wants it to be, but there's that light, that constant light; it pierces the veil over his eyes, and maybe sun blindness is becoming a factor as it wedges under his eyelids, and Aoba is helpless against it, pinned and unable to keep it at bay.

There's a breath of air that forces from his lungs and his mouth spits it out as a yawn, can feel the creak of bones unused for hours cracking, slipping into place, but the synapses of his mind are too thickened over with sleep and disorientation to really understand the world outside as a whole.

However, his skin registers a solid wall of heat behind him, shaped to his back, meets all along his body and keeps his body stationary, unable to move. There's fractured images that make a slow plunge into his fuzzy conscious and breaks it with these not-ready images of his memory, pushes a vague sense of remembrance of just where he is and what he's doing, and what he could be doing; but Aoba's not awake enough to process it, he's not on all cylinders, and he doesn't want to be with this early hour that's made itself known with the hues that have been painted into the sky outside.

Aoba registers the press of something against his stomach, encompasses his body in a tightened grip, and holds together with a force that thinks Aoba could split apart at the seams, or catch the soft, vulnerable parts that will eventually spill out. In this, it makes a harness that Aoba doesn't fight against, there's no reason to, not when his mind pushes a name out to these grips. Koujaku is a steady wall of muscle and skin and heat pressed against his body, soft breath and delicate breathing that creates a rhythm that soothes and consoles Aoba's own mind.

It's this natural balm he has come to enjoy.

Sleek, tightly-wound muscles expand against the younger man's back with every intake of breath, molds until they're a roughly-finished piece of clay together, nothing but these complimentary hues and not-so-quite finished places, until Koujaku's lungs spill the wrong kinds of paint all over the canvas, changing the direction of this work by inhaling a little too fast, shifting and interrupts them pressed together, and Aoba's back isn't completely pressed against the ever-heated flesh of Koujaku's chest. He turns a little, rolled partially on his back, hands unwinding but don't move far apart.

However, Aoba continues finding comfort in Koujaku's breathing, in this steady presence that provides a tranquility to his mind, his body, everything that of his own existence, and that's fine, that's enough for Aoba.

(Doesn't he sound like that kind of hopeless romantic that he's always teasing Koujaku about being.)

But that doesn't last long, Koujaku's body somehow sensing the loss of contact, correcting itself, and it takes Aoba back into its arms and ensnares him back under its flesh, what a warm place it is, one of Aoba's favorite things not admitted out loud but only in the depths where he can save himself embarrassment of being affected by sentimental actions.

The flats of Koujaku's palms press against Aoba's stomach, covered by one of the shirts that Aoba borrowed from Koujaku, which is somewhat hard for Aoba to see Koujaku wearing since Koujaku prefers that kimono and jean combination the most.

But it's the morning and Aoba allows himself an unguarded moment to sink into spaces of these thoughts of his mind that are scattered from waking up, not thinking much of dwelling on the subject of his boyfriend's fashion habits.

Aoba sighs with a breath that pushes his thoughts away to make room for his body to relax, let himself fall under the shallow waves of the pleasant morning buzz until he is consumed with desirable warmth of this physical contact and the added heat that Koujaku's body emits. Aoba's movements causes Koujaku's body to react, face pushing into the valley of Aoba's neck and shoulder, his arms tighten, bringing Aoba back, further pressed into his bare chest, warmth seeping from his nose in a huffed breath of content at the position.

Somehow, Koujaku's entire existence settles on the surface of Aoba's skin and descends deep into his pores, until the younger man can feel his body willing to drown in it.

And what a nice touch, it covers the softened parts that let Koujaku seep passed them, down into parts that are not placed with defenses.

Aoba settles back, allowing his body to move back, seeking more of Koujaku's warmth in the midst of this unguarded moment, of when his own inhibitions have wilted and withered under these rare moments of free thinking. Aoba is more than aware that he'd make a big fuss and mumble out half-bitten off words of embarrassment at the mere thought of initiating romantic gestures (Koujaku gives him enough teasing, enough remarks that have Aoba flying into the ground, snap his bones with the force, unable to support himself under it), but this time, he's good, he feels good, he's safe in this private moment with Koujaku not awake for honey-sweetened words to fall from his tongue.

Aoba takes a moment to gander down, looking at the inked arms that encircle his body, bringing him closer to the heat of Koujaku's body. For a while, all Aoba does is stare at Koujaku's arms, his eyes trace the outlines and curves and of the tattoos that stain the skin, the roughed patches of scars that are pasted to the surface, the smooth outline of muscles that lie just under the surface of the dark-haired man's skin.

Aoba has a quiet moment where he lets himself indulge in this safe feeling of envelopment of Koujaku's body, surrounded on all sides by Koujaku's body in some way, his presence that places itself on the forefront of his senses, and Aoba feels so boxed in, surrounded, completely and utterly trapped by this being that holds him in this place.

Strangely, Aoba doesn't feel threatened.

It becomes quite the opposite.

In the dark recesses of his mind, where the raw feeling and need and desire crouch low in the underbrush of all inhibitions and the susceptible parts of his fragile insecurities, he feels enthralled, reveling, loving the way Koujaku entangles his body inside the grip of his own broad one.

It's how Koujaku can wrap around Aoba's body, those muscles barely contracting, a minimal use of the power that lies in the corded muscles of Koujaku's body, that strength he doesn't show off that Aoba knows is just under the surface, is lurking, waiting to be used, waiting to spring forth and destroy what lays in its wake.

But that doesn't happen, it never happens, and maybe one day, it could, in some shape or way or form, there’s always that possibility, and in some murky part of his soul, he positively loves it.

But he'll never say it out loud, he won't say something that'll leave everything ruined and collapsed against the wall in shock, bruised with harsh truth.

The blue-haired male leans back, tips his head back, his throat releasing such a content breath, all the while it elicits a movement from Koujaku's body, a sleep-like sound of protest, arms tightening, pressing his face harder into Aoba's neck before he settles again, settled under the blank veil of sleep.

Aoba looks down at the arms that encircle his body again, keeps him pressed securely against Koujaku's body. Aoba might be ignoring it, becoming more aware of just where his thoughts are going, of the low kindle at the ends of his nerves, and he swallows, a slow drip of self-denial congealing along the edges.

He's very aware of himself, maybe just too much with how often he’s consistently trying to monitor his own reactions, but it’s how his thoughts are coming together, calcifying into a piece that Aoba isn't sure he wants to view the final product of it, however, it's his body, it's the desire that twirls through his veins in a slow burn that hovers just under his senses.

Aoba finds himself studying the contours of Koujaku's arms around his body, eyes trailing along the flesh before him. His eyes swirl around the black ink lines that imprints everywhere, the slopes of muscle that press to the undersides of the skin, defined and sharp and hardened, the indents and slopes they create, to the light ridges of veins that show up along the ink, a clear sign that Koujaku values taking care of his body as best as he can.

There's a shudder that crawls down Aoba's spine, scrapes against his vertebrae with sharp nails of feeling, and Aoba is mildly confused, somewhat put-off by his reaction to just seeing Koujaku's arms, things he's seen countless times, in countless positions and meager and innocuous tasks that have no meaning, no grand scheme, but Aoba's bodily reaction suggests this has become no longer an innocent exploration out of curiosity anymore.

It's always that one thought that pours thick-hot and heady along the other pieces, tainting them, morphing and twisting until they resemble something becoming darker than what should be permitted. And are Aoba's thoughts ever-becoming so thickened with something more dark.

However, Aoba's mind is a runaway train and he's this poor conductor, helpless, and what a poor, sad thing he's turned out to be.

There's this wave of heat that’s submerging Aoba's body as he keeps staring at Koujaku's arms, each small flex of muscle, those minute contractions every time Koujaku shifts in his sleep, still holding onto him, and as much as Aoba’s confused about continuing to entertain these thoughts (impossible, he's useless pinned against them), these little voices begin to parachute around the inside of his skull and grow, each little breathy voice reminding him of things, all of it pertaining to that strength hidden just beneath Koujaku's exterior, that mere thought of power and force that lays so wasted without use, and it begins to whispers about the possibilities, the endless litany of things that Koujaku could (should, must, _needs_ ) use it on.

Images of pinned hands piece together roughly, his mind's eye allowing all of it to fall into place, the wrap of long fingers around wrists far smaller, excess length that continues to dwarf them in sheer size.

Aoba's breathing stacks back into a choppy rhythm.

A shiver rides the ridges of Aoba's spine to crash in a blaze at the base of his spine, spirals out in a cloud of desire and heat and all things that push Aoba to try to taper down on, all of it trying to blister his throat traveling to his mouth as little sounds trying to escape.

His mind has no problem with thinking about it, as much as Aoba tries to keep himself in order, just continues to emphasize the sheer size difference between him and Koujaku. Once upon a time, Aoba would have felt insecure, inadequate compared to the muscles that lay beneath Koujaku's skin, he would have dove inside himself to hide from that insecurity.

How that has changed in this early morning.

He can't (won't) admit it out loud; if he does, he'll ruin himself, collapsing into this place he's trying to avoid.

" _Koujaku could easily do it_ ," his mind whispers through shudders of breathy intakes, low tones all caressing these thoughts; Koujaku could push him flush against the wall and every part of his body dwarfing Aoba's, the force pushing him to rub against bricks, and there, Aoba wouldn't mind, he'd let himself be nurtured to the wills and wishes of Koujaku's own desire that would keep him pinned to that wall.

This, all of what whirls inside Aoba's mind, inside is his head is the colliding of thoughts in a symphony that creates this pile up of slow-burning desire, causes Aoba to squirm, to shudder against the arms that encase him, dwarf his body, make him almost insignificant against Koujaku’s size. It shouldn't be a thing, it shouldn't be anything, but here he is, drowning inside his own mind as his thoughts exceeds the level he needs to think clearly.

Aoba breathes harder because god, he can't _believe_ he's become this desperate, this easily ruptured.

Unbelievable.

Koujaku's an aesthetic that Aoba appreciates, from the way his body touches Aoba's that tells him he's still alive but the touch never enough, to the way everything culminates when Koujaku just does anything.

Aoba knows Koujaku works to keep himself in order, from maintaining professionalism at his job, the way he lets compliments slide against his skin, down his body but never absorbs them, never lets anything in that doesn't come breathy from Aoba's throat when raw and vibrating in rhythms that crescendo, all the way to the flex of his muscles when he takes on an exercising regime. Aoba's hands become clumsy, his entire desire drips into his palms that Aoba finds hard to hold onto when he stumbles through the subject of Koujaku working out, pushing his body, limbs extending that hidden power, and there's that sweat that curls down Koujaku’s chin and across his back, settles into the small of the older man’s back. Aoba feels the dull roar of all this welling heat in his stomach because Koujaku's not even _doing_ anything right now, he's not even _awake_ , this should be so absurd, and here Aoba is, thinking about his muscles when sweat-slick and contracting and rising underneath his skin—

" _Should you be sorry about this_?" as if his mind is recognizing the predicament he's being put through, whispered through tones of calm, but when has Aoba's mind not been exactly sorry for what slides through the cracks of his defenses, and latching onto it without consulting him, " _you enjoy it, don't you_?" taunts his mind's eye, and wow, doesn't Aoba wish to confront himself for his mind because it’s continuing to latch onto these thoughts.

The longer he allows this buildup of thoughts, the longer Aoba let's this kindling heat flare against the edges of his nerves, the more he can't stop squirming, the more he can't hear that last sensible voice whispering to stop moving, he's not alone in the bed.

However, somehow, in ways Aoba doesn't think he’ll fully understand, Koujaku's body is attuned to his own, and his body shifting, arms tightening around him as if he senses distress, unconsciously soothing a metaphorical comfort across Aoba, offering relief. Aoba is vaguely aware that he's dangerously close to waking up Koujaku and he'll have to come up with the words to excuse why he can't stop wriggling, knows the words will taste awkward on his tongue, how out of place they'll sound in the air, all of it to crash around him because somehow, Koujaku will know; he'll see passed this false smokescreen Aoba can't continue to maintain to go up without a trace.

Koujaku's palms, scars long ago having bloomed against his knuckles, are broad and flat against Aoba's stomach, Koujaku's nose having found the slope of his neck, warm breath trickling through the strands of his hair, and there's a small sound, an exhale, an inhale, a sound of sleep, Aoba can't pinpoint it, not with the way his body has been reacting, but he's aware he should know.

If Koujaku woke up to see him in this state, Aoba would collapse into himself at such a force and energy that he'd birth the cosmos with the amount of strength and speed Aoba disappeared with.

God, Aoba can't stop himself, can't stop himself from feeling so surrounded, from reveling in it, the imposing atmosphere that Koujaku unconsciously emits, and Aoba's hips twitch, they surge slightly forward, and Aoba fails to realize this. There's this mixture of embarrassment laced with shame, and this unnoticed thrill of Koujaku waking up to see him in this state, one that Aoba doesn't notice outside of the white noise that ascends his spine, climbs his ribs as though they're mere stepladders, and really, Aoba's never this unaware of himself, never this loose, but he can't explain it, he can't figure out why he's let himself be fed to the dragon that whispers soothingly about how good all of this feels.

It leaves him shaking against the backdrop that is Koujaku's chest.

How desperate he's become.

But Aoba's drowning in this kind of orchestra that exceeds his awareness of everything that he forgets he's not alone in this bed, he forgets just exactly where he's located, and all this buildup of movement is jostling Koujaku, not even an arm's length away. Aoba stiffens when he hears a groan, sleep detaching from the darker-haired man's throat to rush up with the sound of his voice, expelled through a yawn.

Aoba's entire world halts, thinks he can hear tires screech inside his skull, the sound of shattered glass, the sound of cars rolling over and exploding on impact. It registers too late with Aoba that he should have stopped moving, a now horrified wave at the highest point of a diurnal tide that roughly collides against his body, and all of it collapses onto his head in a cloud of smoke and debris with the realization that Koujaku was his quiet audience to watching him become turned on by thinking about Koujaku's broad size.

How disconcerting.

Even with the press of Koujaku's lips to his neck, sleep-puffed, drags warm and dry against his skin, light in pressure and languid, it does nothing to stop that collected dread in his stomach. Aoba squirms not because of reasons that Koujaku might perceive, though he delights in Aoba's movements, obviously encouraged by the reaction to his action. Aoba attempts to distance himself, sure that somehow, Koujaku can sense these thoughts, which he's waiting to soften them with cotton padding before impacting them against Aoba's mind.

There's a protest that's trying to wedge under the blue-haired man's teeth but not when it's pushed back down Aoba's throat when Koujaku's arms move, one slipping up his side, brushing against his sleep-mused hair, long fingers brushing against his scalp, and a sleep-thickened voice that falls heavily against the skin of his neck, "and good morning to you, too, Aoba," smeared hotly against the skin of his neck.

Koujaku noses against Aoba's skin, his voice is pressed against the younger man's ear, against every vital part of Aoba's body, "all that squirming has got me awake," and it's so filled with content, just a slip of happiness from his tongue. He continues to nuzzle at the back of Aoba's neck, against the ruffled hair, against all things that's offered to him created from Aoba, "you should've known that'd get me in the mood."

This is supposed to be the beginning of a scene that doesn't deviate from its definite act, where the scene begins with Koujaku opening a path to start friendly banter, and Aoba stars as the protagonist meant to fight against this banter, and it leads into the rest of the day with laughter and giggles and fingers touching in an attempt to feed from that positive energy, collect it at the ends of their fingers that serves more of a wake up than sunlight against their bodies.

It's their version of the world made out of love and closeness, but now, it's not.

For Aoba, it's become something else entirely different. He doesn't have enough room in his mind to develop a response, he doesn’t have much ability to do anything, and it's as though somehow the words and sounds of his thoughts will slide up his throat and out his mouth if he dares to say anything. It's impossible, but it's how Aoba's mind likes to function.

He really needs to teach himself that no such thing can happen.

Koujaku must take his squirming and lack of reply as something else, and what that is, Aoba knows, but Koujaku's next movements are unexpected as the bed shifts, Koujaku's body pulls away, momentarily draws Aoba's attention, and Koujaku is rising up behind him on his arms supporting him, leaning on them, partially sitting up while his legs remain on the bed, and he hovers partially over Aoba when the younger male turns around, cranes at his pelvis, to see what Koujaku is doing.

Aoba's throat can't quite pass proper air through an appropriate rhythm because he's too drawn to Koujaku hovering over him, and god, Aoba is ready to burn inside his skin, from the desire that collects against his body and the embarrassment about how he's reacting, his thoughts breaking over his head with too much realization and self-awareness that he just can't let go. Why he's become so self-aware when not even five ago, he was desperate and unknowing of his surroundings and just why it has to be his main focus now, he doesn't know and doesn't quite like it.

Aoba hates how he's so easily embarrassed by himself and the mechanisms that come with it.

There's heat that washes against Aoba's insides the longer he continues to look up at Koujaku, wants to stare at Koujaku's arms as they hold him up, watch the inked surface, watch how the muscles move, how they're working to keep the tattooed man up, and all Aoba can do is inhale through his nose, unwilling to open his mouth that all these sounds are waiting for behind his teeth.

However, Koujaku moves, his elbows bend, and leans down to press his lips against Aoba's exposed shoulder (that's right, Aoba forgot he was wearing that), his lips a soft press, eyes closed, and a sense of calm content spreads from under Koujaku's touch, the blue-haired man's skin eager to drink in this caress.

Koujaku continues to be a soft pressure against his skin, lavishes small presses of kisses against the warmed surface, and Aoba somewhat marvels this touch, the delicate pressure, the light force that hides Koujaku's strength behind a sweet opaque curtain, one of which Aoba is trying to stop thinking about because he's sure as hell trying not going to become desperate in front of Koujaku, knowing the older man will tease him about it.

The bed moves again, Koujaku shifting upward, and his legs move to divide on either side of Aoba, his arms moving and he's now braced above the smaller male. However, all Aoba can think about is Koujaku surrounding him, filling his senses, his presence pinning the younger man in place. He's an open display for Koujaku’s eyes to feast from, unable to move his body anywhere.

It always begins this way, a scene that starts with friendly banter, some innocent touches, and everything becomes charged, falls into a situation that no longer can innocuous touches and caresses, some honey-thick words that develop into heavier, thickened liquid to spread over their bones.

Aoba can't help but trace up Koujaku's arms, journeys along the skin, skims over each ridge of exposed muscle, the muscles that stand out, and Aoba thinks he stopped himself fast enough before his breathing welled up in his throat too fast, to soon, especially with Koujaku watching him, staring down at him, fixated on every movement Aoba makes. This near all-consuming attention Koujaku gives Aoba is almost too much, and Aoba wants to turn away, utter those same words of, "stop staring at me like that," because he's still not used to that type of attention, being the very object of someone's desires.

Sure, he should be used to it, accustomed, but he can't help it, all that flattering attention, his body consumed by it, it still rubs him too raw.

Koujaku's head tilts, continuing to hold Aoba's body at his attention, and he shifts, putting more weight down on his knees to steady himself more, and his head descends toward Aoba's. The blue-haired male knows what Koujaku is going for, the image a repeated routine, and just as Aoba is ready to lift his arms to latch behind Koujaku’s head, bring him closer, Koujaku suddenly deviates from the routine. His hands catch one of Aoba's wrists, broad palm and fingers wrapping around the limb, and it strikes Aoba so quickly, his hazel eyes finding the sight as Koujaku lifts his wrist up.

(He notices it, the way Koujaku dwarfs his wrist, those long fingers wrapped around his own; it's like there's nothing there, nothing that Koujaku should be holding.)

Aoba is confused; his eyebrows draw together, a question wanting to slide to the tip of his tongue. He watches Koujaku’s fingers, nimble in the way they wrap around his wrist, staring at the way Koujaku holds his wrist, the way his wrist looks like virtually nothing when caught in the older man’s grip.

Instead, Koujaku brings Aoba’s wrist to his mouth, his lips pressing gently, an airy contact upon Aoba’s skin, and that causes Aoba to blink, a light twitch at this unexpected touch, the gentleness absorbed into his skin. Koujaku turns Aoba’s wrist in his grasp, palm facing toward the ceiling, and presses lightly against the base of Aoba’s wrist with his lips, breathes warm against the skin, the air making a slow descend against Aoba’s skin, and he breathes, “Aoba,” so delicately against the nerves of Aoba’s hand.

It’s reverent, soft-spoken, Koujaku’s head tilting upward, drags his chin against the inside of Aoba’s wrist, his eyes falling closed, and continues to press, “such a nice way to wake up,” gently into the skin, smiling against it. Aoba feels his face flare up, heat lingering at the edges of his nerves, and there’s that urge to turn away, babble out some half-thought non-sense about Koujaku being sentimental, he’s being so loving that it swells too much emotion in his chest that Aoba doesn’t know what to do with, all of it trying to wedge outside his pores and split his skin at the same time.

“Y-you don’t have to say that,” Aoba nearly mumbles, unable to clear his voice enough to sound natural, hunches into his shoulders a little but can’t resist turning his head away. He’s not prepared for sudden situations where Koujaku chooses at that time that he must express how much he’s grateful for Aoba’s presence, his entire being a reason for Koujaku to keep himself going, and really, that amount of dedication and placed motivation still amazes Aoba, it continues to rob his chest of air and his lungs continuously unable to work right.

But all Koujaku does is smile, this calm, serene look that etches into his skin, and he’s still holding onto his wrist, his eyes are still gently pressed shut, and, “it’s true,” is all soothing baritones and low-crouched, presses his cheek to Aoba’s wrist.

There’s morning stubble that dusts and shadows Koujaku’s jaw, shadows it in, that scratches against the younger man’s sleep-warmed skin, part of Koujaku’s hair splaying against Aoba’s wrist, gives him a small tickle, and Koujaku’s not done, he’s never done expressing his gratitude and eternal appreciation toward him, not ever enough time, for Koujaku to even begin. “Waking up with you is one of the best parts of the day,” and doesn’t that slide into his pores and clogs them with all this emotion that Koujaku gently covers his body with.

Aoba bites his lip, chews it between his teeth, trying to ignore the embarrassed urge to turn away from Koujaku’s romantic musing, the automatic reaction that’s been trying to break the surface water of his mind, only hunches more into his shoulders which is impressive considering his usual reactions to Koujaku’s words, and silently does Aoba congratulate himself for not giving Koujaku anymore ammunition to tease him with.

Aoba peers out the corners of his eyes, watching Koujaku lavish attention against the inside of wrist. He eyes the broad palm that ensnares his wrist; the way Koujaku is all-consumed with this need to press affection into his skin, when Koujaku turns his wrist over, placing his lips delicately against the top of his hand, to the base of his wrist, against the knuckles that arch up from the foot of his fingers. However, Koujaku’s not done (he’s never finished with showering Aoba with affection, with years long emotion kept pressed to the bottom of his mind).

Why would he be done—he’s never done with leaving words of affection and adoration hanging in the air to crash against Aoba’s being, letting them slide off his tongue with a sensual longing that leaves white-hot trails down Aoba’s back, collects into the small of it, pools against his skin and through his pores that allows his body to take it into him.

Of course, Aoba can’t stop the quick expansion of his lungs, from the air his body is suddenly hungry for, needing oxygen to quell the ache in his body that forms from Koujaku’s words.

Koujaku’s lips trace along the smooth surface of Aoba’s palm, trails the edges of bones that make delicate ridges underneath his skin, the slopes of his fingers, all these warm pathways carved out against his skin. It’s in the drag of dry, warm lips that Aoba starts to move, these minute contractions of his muscles, in the way his lungs start to become labored with his need for air to steady his ever-increasingly near-desperate movements.

Aoba becomes sensitive to every movement Koujaku places against his wrist, his hand, the delicate press of his being against Aoba’s own, the way those fingers hold so softly against his own, his grip loose, still sturdy. Aoba thinks about the gentleness of it all, the soft touches, the airy contact that poses no threat to him, but Aoba knows, just under all of that skin is thickened muscle and bones that could break his hand.

Leave him like broken, pretty stained mess of shiny porcelain at the bottom of the stairs, forgotten, to be marveled at in the beauty it still would retain, even when shattered to core of its existence.

Koujaku continues to profligate attention against his skin, and of course, there’s heat that crawls up his spine, fits into the spaces between his ribs, all of it giving way to this languid heat that spread through his veins and pools indulgently into Aoba’s stomach.

Koujaku does open his eyes, lidded with desire and half-spoken praise, “and all of it is true,” and there’s that underlying thirst pressed against Koujaku’s words, “I’m so grateful, Aoba, for this,” and he flourishes those words with another kiss against the warm skin as if it’s Koujaku’s non-harmful way of injecting and pushing and spearing all of his affections and desires and love into Aoba’s being without it hurting, without blood welling up where it’s pierced the fragility of Aoba’s skin.

It won’t harm him, not in the way that would cause such a downfall in his existence.

Koujaku’s words walk heavily against his skin and invent all kinds of low heat, sinks beneath his skin to well up in his blood that surges toward his face before Aoba can understand just how much of an impact they have on him. Koujaku places his lips against the inside of Aoba’s palm after turning it over again, his lips linger against the skin, and Aoba chews his bottom lip, tries to stifle the sounds that grab handfuls of his throat, trying to his mouth to open and let all sounds spill from his guarded voice.

“Every day,” Koujaku breathes heated against his wrist, “waking up next to you,” and there’s a warm press of lips against Aoba’s knuckles, “it’s all I’ve ever wanted,” and Koujaku looks up, sits there with young love and a picture of content, waiting for Aoba with confidence, with a sure determination that this is the best thing that could have been conceived. Koujaku must be in one of those moods, when everything he says out loud leaves Aoba quivering against the wall, feeding into the monster that is desire that lurks at the end of the hallway around the corner for Aoba, unsuspecting since it always catches Aoba off guard. Sure, it’s enough to fluster Aoba, embed his face with too much heat that it’s almost searing but this always sets off a swell of emotion inside Aoba’s chest, crashes against his ribcage and through the bones to wash his body in Koujaku’s words.

Koujaku always seems to take the parts of his words he loves the most and sews them together to make a creature that Aoba finds impossible to not love back, even more than what Aoba could think was possible.

Koujaku moves, catching Aoba’s attention, craning his body and slowly lowering Aoba’s thoroughly-kissed hand, but not completely, and Aoba knows the next sequence of events will present the same way until Koujaku decides to deviate once more, his lips landing softly on Aoba’s forehead, lingering, pressing heat against the surface, his body bending over Aoba’s, casts this shadow that covers Aoba’s own presence.

The way Koujaku presses gentle affections against Aoba’s body kindles, there’s a nice heated feeling that drips into Aoba’s blood but there’s still that reaction to every fondness Koujaku presses to the outside of his being; it still continues to fluster him, huff out Koujaku’s name with that same need for him to stop but yet, still continue to press praises against his skin.

Aoba turns his head toward Koujaku, ready to say something, possibly anything than lying here in this involuntary subservient-like role, pinned and utterly useless, Aoba instead finds his attention directed to Koujaku’s ministrations against his wrist, when Koujaku’s hand shifts, switching the position until Koujaku is holding Aoba’s hand, placed so delicately inside his fingers’ hold, those fingers wrapping steadfast against his skin, around it, his hand fitting almost feminine-like in its position and regards against the older man’s limb.

There’s a knot in Aoba’s stomach; it tightens and coils together and strains under the stress that builds inside his ribcage—Aoba can’t help the attention that’s drawn toward the size, and it’s really _great_ that Aoba seemingly gets bothered by something that’s been in his line of sight for days, there on the floor beside the bed for days, weeks, there to rot and collect dust as it evades his line of sight, and Aoba thinks it’s stupefying that it’s taken him this long to recognize the obviousness of it all.

Koujaku moves, leans over Aoba even more (and there, that’s an audible hitch in his breath) and Aoba prepares to crane his neck and meet Koujaku but he’s moving away from the younger man’s lips, aiming for another place and Aoba figures it out when Koujaku’s warm lips press blithely against his forehead, lingering, imprinting his fondness there.

Aoba might have said something about that, maybe he would have done something, return the gesture in his own way, but he’s momentarily caught in the shadow that looms over him, Koujaku’s body shielding over him, boxing him in, surrounded on all sides of his senses that it fills him to the brim with nothing but Koujaku, nothing but the scent and presence and all-familiar inky blankness that pastes to his body. There’s this feeling of safe that wells in his stomach, against the underside of his skin, and there’s that undeniable feeling of desire and heat and all things considered passion that drains liquid-hot into the base of his spine.

Aoba tries to grab onto his reaction, but there’s breath that spills from his lips into the open air for Koujaku to hear, and there’s a smile that forms on Koujaku’s lips, and Aoba feels it full force as they press to his forehead again, and he’s pulling back this time but stays there, his eyes trained on Aoba with this fuzzy, lidded look that Aoba knows will be the start of Koujaku’s mood before they even do anything, that will depict how Aoba thinks they’re gonna go without even the slightest action from Koujaku before it even happens.

Aoba should know Koujaku’s nuances by now.

Sometimes when there’s nothing to distract him from the white noise that sounds in the back of his mind, Aoba thinks it should be terrible of him that he’s still not used to this all-consuming desire that Koujaku imprints on his body with his fingers, trace and rub in all of his wishes and pleasures and joy and everything considered love and happiness into his skin with curved fingertips.

He should be used to it, he should be accustomed to how often it happens, and there’s still this near reaction-like response to become embarrassed by it, and as much as Aoba wants to say it’s because Koujaku’s so sappy and love-y dove-y, lives for embarrassing and flustering him, Aoba knows it’s his own fault that he’s seemingly still not used to being regarded as someone’s whole world.

It’s been months; shouldn’t he be passed this first stage of dating feelings?

(Koujaku still thinks it’s cute, that goddamn bastard.)

Koujaku continues to look at him, his face hovering closely, and god, Aoba does want to do something, and he’s trying to push himself into drive with these (useless) words of encouragement inside his head, trying to reach a height where he can spring his body into movement, and there, as soon as Aoba thinks he’s found the perfect hold on courage that he thinks drips slowly into his hands, it becomes sand to slide effortlessly through the slots of his fingers.

He huffs mentally, hopes none of it shows outside his space of mind.

He’s wedged from the confines of his mental bearings when Koujaku smiles, this soft and gentle and innocuous smile and Aoba can’t help it, that hitch in his lungs, that stutter of his heartbeat that feels magnified louder than what it should be, and Koujaku lets soft-spoken words roll off his tongue with, “I’m so,” and he moves, one of his hands moving to find the soft heat of Aoba’s face, fingers pressing soft against his cheek, “thankful for this,” and it’s spoken with this low intensity, presses flush against the Aoba’s body and rubs against like a brick wall that bites into his skin everywhere it touches.

(There’s another image, one that his mind’s eye roams over and it presents this idea of Aoba moving, wriggling from under Koujaku, push Koujaku to keep him here, pinned in place, holds his wrists down and press them to the bed, indent the mattress with his body, his wrists sinking into the material, and there Koujaku would use that touch to overpower him so easily, so effortlessly that Koujaku wouldn’t have to do anything outside that small amount of strength he would exert.

And in this vision, Aoba is a sacrifice to be fed to Koujaku’s desire against the background of Koujaku’s own home, and everything that is Aoba’s own person allowing himself to enthusiastically accepting that role.)

Koujaku’s eyes are vivid with desire that Aoba swears he feels its pressure against his body, pierces through his skin and climbs through his ribs and slots into place and Aoba is helpless against it. Koujaku presses chaste kisses to his face, placed on his forehead, against the corners of his eyes, polishes the gentle slopes of his cheeks, imprinting his affection on every part of surface he can physically reach.

Aoba would gladly let this fill his lungs and burst to leak all inside his body to choke on.

Koujaku reaches his lips, hovers over them, and Aoba can feel warm breath connecting to his skin, against his lips, and he angles his head to reach upward, trying to connect their lips, but Koujaku moves with him, tilts his head back just out of reach of Aoba’s advancements. The tattooed man just smiles and Aoba senses the beginning of an annoyance that slides down the back of his throat, languidly edging into the atmosphere of his mood.

Koujaku must sense Aoba’s mood change—he’s become attuned to what the blue-haired man’s needs are, so willing to take them into his hands to nurture to perfect health, and it’s not yet time to feed those needs. Instead Koujaku lets his head lower down, rests his forehead against Aoba’s own, and momentarily, Aoba is confused, his brows furrow at this sudden change in direction again. Though there is still that shade of irritation at Koujaku’s usual teasing painted against the underside of his stomach, he accepts this token of affection, even basks in this closeness that Koujaku feels this urge to create.

Koujaku’s fingers have already slid away from Aoba’s face, planted next to Aoba’s head, brushing against strands that have fanned out from Aoba’s head, and there’s this muted sensation that interlopes along the edges of his perceptions. They stay like that, absorbed inside this moment’s pull, an unspoken silence of affection and adoration that either feed from, nursed by the feeling that comes from both of them, trading heat that Aoba enjoys, has relaxed since he’s not sure when, but he accepts and enjoys this unguarded moment where nothing collapses into his mind in a dust cloud of insecurity or embarrassment.

It’s a nice change.

Aoba takes a breath that has been burning inside his lungs for release, comes up through his throat in a serene calm, and small hesitation makes a flash through his veins before he reaches up, slowly, almost calculating the situation if he kept going, and places his hands on the back of Koujaku’s neck, his touch landing on the hair that pours across the older man’s neck, still mused from sleeping, and Aoba holds there, his grip a little hesitant but firm in growing confidence.

It’s not often Aoba initiates things, it’s not often where he can’t get passed the heat that sinks below his pores to boil his flesh inside his body, and it’s just—Aoba’s not uncomfortable with being romantic, with enjoying the simplicity of moments that are romantic in nature, and it’s not that he’s uncomfortable about expressing it (as much as Aoba would like to be regularly initiating it, wishes he could do something about it), he’s just not used to it, has gone on for so long without needing it, seeing a reason for romantic expressions and needing it then.

(Maybe, there’s that one part buried under all this sweetness and honey-slick expression and feeling and joyous warmth is that smudged black spot at the bottom of his mind’s dark corners where everything isn’t like he’s happy and everything is forgiven even when he knows when things don’t deserve it.

He’s back there, the flush of artificial light alongside metal that supports him as he swings back and forth repeatedly with water leaking down his face and between his fingers and under his chin as a constant litany of, “ _why did they leave me?_ ” whispered with such childhood innocence as he notices the black sky and all those lights that continue on as though nothing ever happened, as if Aoba’s parents hadn’t left him in the home they built him.

He didn’t like this ending, all of it saying something ugly to him as everyone eventually leaves. What’s to stop Aoba from going back to thinking that it won’t happen again, who’s going to love him like that as a child to rip the cloth from his body to leave him with the cold that’s clung to his body into his adulthood years?

Is it silly, is it really something he should be somewhat holding onto?)

Aoba is pulled from this black-lit musing when Koujaku moves, bends his body until Aoba thinks Koujaku is trying to sink down on top of him (would he mind, would he like that size pressed against his body in a flush that leaves him arching and wanting to be held in place by Koujaku’s body?), and tilts his head down and finally, just _finally_ , does Koujaku allow his lips to connect with Aoba’s—he’s pulling back, Aoba blinking before his eyes narrow, Koujaku grinning above him.

Aoba wants to say something, protest Koujaku pulling back after he’s given Aoba another kiss, and Koujaku must see his expression souring, but he gives in, a quiet laugh falling out his mouth as Aoba huffs, “stop being such a tease, you hippo,” coming out in a near pout (he’s not pouting, he’s not, he’s _not_ ). Koujaku soothes down these rising emotions with pressing his lips back to Aoba’s dipping his neck down, and begins to lick his way into Aoba’s mouth, his tongue sliding against the seam of his mouth, and Aoba gives way, opens his mouth just enough for Koujaku to breach, his tongue hot and slick as it meets with Aoba’s own. The older man pushes against Aoba’s mouth, a small pressure that makes Aoba’s fingers tighten slightly, enjoying the feeling of soft hair in his hands and Koujaku’s warmed lips pressing against his own.

Koujaku slides his tongue across Aoba’s teeth, over Aoba’s tongue again, and ever so slowly does Koujaku begin to fill his senses and melt over his skin to drip into his bones, all of Koujaku’s presence beginning to overwhelm anything else that may have residual attachment to Aoba’s conscious. Koujaku pulls back, not before he gives a small press of his lips against Aoba’s, and Aoba rolls his eyes internally because Koujaku still has to be some kind of gentleman, giving Aoba enough time to back out if he’s not in the mood.

Why would Aoba want to back out, why would he want that at all?

He’s not one of those females that Koujaku used to offer himself to, he’s not this glass figure meant to be on the top shelf away from fingers of curiosity and danger that would leave him shattered on the floor in a mess of pretty stained glass, and Koujaku should know this, he shouldn’t still be acting like this. Aoba wants to voice it, wants to breathe it into Koujaku’s mouth with his tongue against the older man’s.

But as much as he’ll protest Koujaku’s need for gentleness and soft touches, he likes it; he loves the act of it, the thought of Koujaku wanting to be the best thing that can ever fill his body with need and pleasure and all things softly caressing him in such a way that leaves him shuddering against the bed.

The older man must decide that mercy is the more respectable option and comes back to Aoba’s lips, a grin pressed against them, licks against Aoba’s bottom lip, presses his gently before he once against connects their lips, and a temperate push letting Aoba know that the older man wants to go further.

Koujaku continues to lean over the younger male, covers Aoba with his body, settled over him in such a way that may have made Aoba jolt with the realization of it, something, he thinks, but with a mouthful of Koujaku’s tongue, it’s hard to decipher exactly what’s happening beyond the existence of Koujaku’s presence doesn’t extend to.

Aoba pushes back, runs his tongue against Koujaku’s lips, and Koujaku allows Aoba entrance to his mouth, lets his tongue come forth to meet with Aoba’s, and they continuously slide together, slick with heat and spit, swabs against the other, and they wrap around each other as best as they can with such restriction as the space inside their mouths with allow.

Koujaku’s arm bends as his other comes up to slide against Aoba’s sides, a wide palm settling on his hip, Koujaku’s thumb pressing in small circles, rubbing the material of his own shirt that lays across Aoba’s form. The touch is soothing, light, just enough for Aoba to be aware that it’s there, not enough to completely draw his attention from the man that feeds on the breath he emits.

Aoba gets more of a hold on Koujaku’s neck, readjusting his hold, pulling the dark-haired man down more against his mouth, trying to deepen the kiss as much as possible. Koujaku pulls back, breathes, and he moves toward Aoba neck, but not before he presses kisses against the heated skin of Aoba’s jaw, trails them down his throat and toward Aoba’s collarbone, but he doesn’t go any farther, content to pull the skin there between his teeth and tongue at it in a soothing manner.

He gets his teeth onto Aoba’s skin, pushes indents and marks and teeth trails along the skin, marking it, bruising it for his eyes to consume when everything is calm and quiet and all of it settled against the younger man’s skin. He presses his tongue flat against the younger man’s neck, trails to Aoba’s ear and polishes it off with his mouth closing over the end of the trail, sucking bruises just under the surface, brings enough blood upward to see it stark against the near pail-like of Aoba’s skin.

Koujaku’s hand still stays braced against Aoba’s hip, wrapped steadily but gingerly around the bone that makes a slight crest from the skin, keeping this small hold on Aoba’s body. Aoba’s hips make a small arch, tilting his head back, allowing Koujaku more space to fit and give attention to his neck. He should say something, definitely should say something because it’s going to leave marks and Aoba knows this.

Aoba knows it’ll be near impossible to cover them, to keep people from noticing these darkened spots pasted to his skin, and he’ll be embarrassed, sure, rubbing his neck and fending off that trio of young brats that plague Heibon Junk Shop, but honestly now, there’s nothing but a ringing inside his head and the sound of roiling heat and the heaviness of Koujaku’s body keeping everything so smoothly at bay.

Aoba moves, forcing Koujaku to detach his mouth from the skin of his neck, and Aoba pulls him back up, kisses Koujaku with everything he has to offer, pushing his tongue back against the seam of the lips under his own, enough force behind it that his teeth click against the tattooed man’s before him, but Koujaku presses back, adjusting his weight on his arm to his knees to press his hand against Aoba’s other hip.

The kiss isn’t at the point where it’s sloppy, lacking in any direction but the pull of heat between the two, but it’s steadily increasing into a non-controlled mess of spit of and tongues rubbing against the other and hot breath that sears across the other skins and all kinds of heat that entraps between their bodies and tongue and mouths.

Koujaku is putting more force behind the kiss, pushing against the younger male’s, his breath harsh through his nose, and Aoba adds more resistance to wanting to submit to the waves of pressure that begins welling inside his body, a need to relieve it, just allow Koujaku to do anything to his body so long as he is provided relief. However, he’s pushing back against Koujaku’s mouth, a sort of challenge that he issues for Koujaku to bring more to the situation.

Koujaku’s hand traces from Aoba’s hip and down his sides, presses flat and firm against the side of Aoba’s thigh, to curve downward and under Aoba’s knee, fitting his hand into the groove there before wrapping his fingers around it to lift Aoba’s leg, pushing it up until Aoba’s kneed is parallel with his back.

The tattooed man pulls back, flourishes kisses along the sides of Aoba’s mouth, trailing under his jaw before he comes back to Aoba’s mouth, as though he’s giving back the salt he picks up from Aoba’s skin, feeds it back to Aoba, all before he demands to be let back into the heat of Aoba’s mouth. Aoba’s fingers clench in Koujaku’s hair, pull slightly, just enough pressure to urge Koujaku on.

He knows just enough tension on Koujaku’s hair is what the older man likes, and as much as Aoba doesn’t admit to himself, he likes pulling on Koujaku’s hair, run his fingers through the strands to fall through the slots of his fingers, make it messy and tangled and wrapped around his fingers when everything becomes too much that he needs it like an anchor to keep himself from falling over an edge into blackness and oblivion of the mind.

It works such wonders.

Koujaku makes a noise, and he’s reaching down with his other hand to slide it under Aoba’s thigh, gets both of them nearly cradling his waist, and lets one hand settle nearly at the bottom of Aoba’s thigh, feels the warm skin beneath, and does a gentle circular motion of rubbing against it, kneading the flesh beneath his palm, enough to give this sort of comfort.

The older man moves away from Aoba’s mouth again and pulls back, seeing a trail of saliva that breaks swiftly between them, excess of it curling over the side of Aoba’s mouth and Koujaku can’t help it—he brings his thumb up, presses it against the side of Aoba’s mouth, touching the spit that’s been left there and rubs his thumb, spreading it against the skin.

Whatever part of Aoba’s mind that isn’t heavily shrouded in heat and desire and yearning, there’s a sort of afterthought that this isn’t supposed to be sanitary, this shouldn’t be anywhere near causing him such lust-induced feeling, but he does pull back, and that gives Koujaku the want to bury his face back into the groove of Aoba’s neck, once again latching his mouth onto the skin provided, getting his teeth back on the skin, his tongue pressing, swabbing, licking over wherever he can reach.

Koujaku drags his mouth down Aoba’s neck; the morning stubble that clings to his skin creates a heated scratchiness against his skin, leaves behind a phantom residue of a touch, every graze and scrape, all spelling out desire as Koujaku continues to mouth down the skin, gathering it between his teeth. Aoba arches into the touch, into what Koujaku wants to do in this heated moment. Koujaku doesn’t let up; he doesn’t stop trying to imprint his marks into the already blemished skin that Koujaku has left behind, just leave it bruised and ruined and seduced with his actions.

(If Aoba were any more stable inside his mind, he’d protest the marks Koujaku’s pasting to his skin, Koujaku’s not the one who has to deal with the embarrassment of being in public with it, and Aoba knows Koujaku wouldn’t mind it, he’d probably even encourage it.)

Koujaku’s name unspools from somewhere in his lungs, chokes past his lips when he tries to breathe, tries to calm the air in his lungs that threaten to burst them and spill inside his chest. It’s good, it’s horrible, it’s a combination that whirls inside his body and it shouldn’t work, it shouldn’t be such a maddening combination but it does.

It works so well, Koujaku’s mouth leaving teeth marks and blood under the surface, and Koujaku bites down almost enough to hurt, enough to shift his body into a brief overdrive, overloads him with too much sensory information. The dark-haired man soothes over that spot with his tongue, pressed flat and licks a flat strip until it reach just below his ear, and culminates it with a small kiss, as if offering an apology for causing any pain.

Aoba’s hands slowly break away from Koujaku’s neck, his fingers closing over on each side of Koujaku’s neck, clenching in the hair that lays there, squeezing, pulling, and Aoba tries to be careful, he really does, but it’s hard with all the heat that swells his mind and expands his desire to fill his body and overflow with it.

The younger man feels every mark of teeth and imprinted phantom touches wherever Koujaku moves his mouth and every touch his hands give, sliding down his legs, rubbing at his thighs, one moving to curl under the shirt he wears, palm pressing against the flat of his stomach, curves over his ribs and to the side only to repeat the process, continuing to add his own heat to the already-expanding feeling that sings through Aoba’s body.

He can’t help it, Aoba can’t exactly resist, but his body is arching into the touch, presses against Koujaku’s palm, and he wants more, he craves, he desires all that Koujaku can (will) give to him. He makes such a flurry of movement that vaguely he understands it’s throwing Koujaku off, with every movement Aoba’s body gives, Koujaku’s calloused palm gradually presses harder, pushing Aoba back down, trying to give back as much as Aoba is doing. Maybe that’s what Aoba is going for, maybe it’s an unconscious decision because how can Aoba be any more aware of what he’s doing when his mind is all-consumed by the need for Koujaku’s touch to be anywhere on his body?

Aoba’s throat gives way to a sound that’s on his tongue and out his mouth before he realizes it when Koujaku’s fingers trial up his chest and brushes against his nipple, Koujaku’s thumbs catching against them, flicks his nails lightly against them, coming back to rub the pads of his thumbs against Aoba’s nipple, coaxing them to harden under his touch. Koujaku removes his hands, leaves Aoba blinking at the loss of low pleasure before Koujaku’s pushing his shirt up, leaves it bunched under Aoba’s arms before he’s placing his mouth on Aoba’s left nipple.

Koujaku pulls back to kiss the younger man’s hardened nipple before he descends again, gets his mouth over it, all the while he keeps rotating his thumb along the other nipple, rubbing the base of the first knuckle in his thumb against it, making a slide of light friction against it and brings up his pointer finger, rubbing Aoba’s nipple in between them.

Aoba quivers under the mass that is Koujaku’s body, barely registers the tickle of Koujaku’s hair that lightly touches against his chest, consumed by the slow burn that spreads through his veins and down his spine and collects at the ends of his fingertips, and he pants open-mouthed, tries to grit his teeth but his jaw just can’t unhinge enough to clench them, and with Koujaku’s mouth and fingers working him over, crawling in between the openings of his skins and clogging his pores until they’re ready to split open with the same desire, it makes it impossible to completely control his voice.

Koujaku catches the hardened nub between his teeth, gives a slight tug and Aoba’s breath forces out when his lungs suddenly collapse in on themselves so quickly, the air shoved up his throat and Koujaku does wish to be able to catch it, swallow it down, but he does have more pressing matters at hand, more interested in pushing Aoba’s body, in the sounds that he can extract from Aoba’s throat, unhinged and unchanged, and it’s like some personal challenge he issues to himself, readily knowing that Aoba will always try to muffle his own sounds, knows that Aoba is much too embarrassed at trying to show his pleasure out loud as if it’ll desecrate the carefully-constructed image of being in control of the situation.

He doesn’t understand it much himself, but that’s how his boyfriend has worked and it’s going to continue on like nothing has ever happened, which is why Koujaku’s dead set on trying to soothe over those feelings and bring all of it spilled into the daylight.

Koujaku pulls the skin into his mouth, sucks lightly before letting go, making sure to press his thumb down harder, flick his nail against it quicker, and with the aborted breaths that fall from Aoba’s mouth, he’s making progress, he’s slowly undoing the seams of Aoba’s resistance and if he’s good enough, if he’s patient enough, he can spill Aoba’s vulnerability from inside his chest and into Koujaku’s hands, let him take of those fragile parts that he keeps away.

He licks a flat short trail over Aoba’s nipple, already raised and lavished with so much of his attention, and he pauses when he hears that voice letting his name fall from those lips, all sensual and breathy and what Koujaku needs to spur him on, but he continues to confer attention, and the way Aoba trembles, shakes under him, Koujaku decides that maybe enough is enough, he should do something else to Aoba’s body, he should make sure that Aoba’s voice breaks and everything held behind it creates such an incredible storm surge that there’s no way Koujaku could resist being caught up in.

Koujaku gives one last lick, pulling back to see a trail of saliva breaking from his mouth, and looking up to see the back of Aoba’s hand against his mouth, and Aoba knows that Koujaku can see the blush that spills over his skin, stained with heat and nothing in the world can offer him a way to hide just how affected he’s become from Koujaku’s attention being poured against his chest.

Instead, Koujaku keeps staring at him, as much as Aoba wants him to stop doing that, regarding him with that much attention, that much intensity pressed against his being. Koujaku might be smirking, he might be smiling, he’s certainly doing something because all Aoba registers is Koujaku’s thumbs coming back to place themselves on his already-heightened nipples, the touch soft before they press down, harsh in their movement, rubbing small circles, and Aoba’s neck cranes back, another sound pressed against the back of his lips looking for an opening.

Koujaku continues to stare at Aoba, watching him, wanting to see the reactions he causes because god, he loves watching Aoba arch, he loves watching Aoba fall outside his mind where he’s unaware of everything anything but the pressure of his fingers and mouth and tongue and all his affections placed lingering on the younger man’s skin, and it’s such a combination that works so well for Koujaku’s own body because he’s just as eager, just as affected by the actions and reactions that he does and Aoba gives.

Aoba lifts his head back up, his bottom lip caught between his lips, and narrowed eyes looking at Koujaku and he pants, mouth open and, “stop looking at… me like that,” and it must be a feat for Aoba to speak clearly and not give in to the well of sound that presses on all sides of his throat, wanting to split the muscle but he resists, his own mortification and embarrassment at any of those sounds crawling up esophagus holding it back just enough to say something to break Koujaku’s attention.

Koujaku only smiles, a low, “but you look so adorable, Aoba,” with the underside gravel-like and filled with thirst, and Aoba only huffs, tries to not let a moan mingle with the air coming from his lungs, bites his lip again when he feels the need to moan again when Koujaku gives a particularly rough press of his thumb against his nipple, but his breath hitches and spills out behind his teeth and down his lips.

Aoba instead leans up, gets up on his elbows and connects his mouth with Koujaku’s, wanting to stop any words that may fall to cause him more flustered emotion and heat in his face. It does such a wonderful that it does make Koujaku quiet, all but humming sounds traveling through his mouth and into Aoba’s. Koujaku decides to remove one of his hands from Aoba’s chest, curves down the skin, leaves heated trails of goosebumps catching up after his touch, causes Aoba to shiver and under the warm touch.

Since Aoba’s shirt (it’s his shirt, Koujaku realizes with a flare of possession that strikes his bones) is already pleased around his shoulders, out of the way, Koujaku could easily lean down, kiss his way down Aoba’s stomach, dip his tongue into the indention of Aoba’s bellybutton, and just mouth at the skin presented him.

That sounds like a wonderful idea, why isn’t he executing that right now?

The older man connects his mouth with Aoba’s chest, presses his tongue in between the valley of Aoba’s chest, slides down the small indent and reaches Aoba’s naval, presses a kiss to the top and continues along, kissing against the skin, feeling it concave under him and there’s a giggle above him, his brow furrowing, and another when he presses a kiss again, and he looks up this time, sees Aoba’s face straining to not laugh.

Aoba tries to divert his attention, “it’s ticklish,” as though he’s sensing what Koujaku is inquiring, and Aoba’s face gains traces of a light scowl, turning his head away to look at something else, “you know it tickles there,” and it’s almost muttered, and really, Koujaku should know, they’ve done this act so many times that it shouldn’t be any surprise. It shouldn’t be something new for Koujaku to marvel at and dig his fingers into through a curious exploration, but Koujaku still insists on kissing him there, touching along the edges of his ribs, along and down the sides of his body until Aoba is sure his throat will split under the strain that catches along the edges in an attempt to stop the sounds of laughter from spilling into the mixture that’s created into the air.

Koujaku dips his tongue into the space of Aoba’s bellybutton, swirls it along the inside, and again, Aoba lets out a small laugh, and a near whine of, “Koujaku, come on,” makes him stop but not before he gives another lick.

There’s an idea that congeals into the base of his mind, slowly crawls up and into the forefront of his brain and he’s curious about it, tilting his head. Aoba thinks Koujaku’s going to go for his dick, of which Aoba had been distracted too much by other things to now realize how much he actually yearns and needs, and he’s expecting Koujaku to pull his boxers down and begin that usual routine of teasing him and pulling him down into the palm of his hand and control his body with such a fervor. Aoba is prepared for the cool air that will surge onto his skin when Koujaku removes his boxers but it doesn’t come, and instead, there’s a, “hey, Aoba, I wanna try something,” which pulls Aoba up from the leisure crescendo that eats away at his mind.

Aoba doesn’t really stop to think about it, almost all of his attention focused on the strain in his boxers and how desperate he became from just Koujaku playing with his nipples, and he’s ready for anything, he’s ready for Koujaku to just shove him face down into the bed and pull on his hips and do anything to him, as long as there’s no more pressure left inside his body and clenching around his insides that he accepts it.

(Maybe he should be sounder of mind, maybe he should think passed what Koujaku seems to be proposing and if it’ll leave him ruined on the foot of the bed.)

Maybe it’s too late now when the words finally catch the edges of his ears, and he blinks, staring down at where Koujaku has positioned himself, staring at Aoba, wanting his attention before he goes any further and really, it’s still sweet of Koujaku to do that, waiting for his consent.

It’s annoying as it is honey-slick.

Koujaku’s fingers are back against his hips, gripping them and Aoba is aware of them as he calms down inside his head as the pile up of sound dulls and becomes a bearable thing, Koujaku’s fingers grip, and he’s turned over, a sound of surprise shoving passed his teeth, the world tilting and spinning and there’s softness under his chest because that’s right, Koujaku just flipped him over onto his stomach.

And that’s a dawn of collapse on his head in a cloud of dust because that burns Aoba from the inside out, makes him swim inside his thoughts because of that small amount of strength that’s so tightly held in place was just used on him, just that small reminder underlying in Koujaku’s arms and Aoba’s breath hitches audibly, refusing to admit to himself that he wants to do that again, turn over on his back, get up, jump, do something—anything to get Koujaku to push him back down, force him against the bed, his ever-smaller body against the bed and the only clearing above him being Koujaku’s body, solid and muscled and heated, trapping him in place.

Aoba is seriously contemplating this (and the utter perturbed heat that slides against the walls of his veins) when the movement of his boxers stops him, his thoughts halting into each other into a roiling pileup in a smokescreen of dust and shattered glass, turning around as best as his back would let the blue-haired male angle himself, sliding up to balance himself on his hands, unable to lift his hips due to Koujaku’s hands holding them in place, and he watches as Koujaku places a kiss at the base of his spine, lets it linger before his kisses at the next vertebrae that makes a soft ridge against his skin, mouthing at it, licks a flat, wet trail until he’s back at the base of Aoba’s spine.

There’s a dawning on his mind as soon as he sees where Koujaku’s mouth is headed, hot breath slipping against his heated flesh, and Aoba tries to say Koujaku’s name, tries to tell him this isn’t sanitary because at least, Aoba is sure it isn’t, it’s so dirty to be doing that but Koujaku’s hands come up to grip Aoba’s cheeks, spreads them open and Aoba nearly gasps, his voice rasping from his throat, this raw-edged feeling of exposure that knifes through his spine and into his organs.

Koujaku’s tongue places itself at the top of the crease of Aoba’s ass, lingering, trails down minutely before swiping back up, and Koujaku gets into a better position, getting to his knees, hands wedged under Aoba’s waist before pulling Aoba with him, and Aoba’s surprised, loses the balance on his arms, taken aback again at the constant change of direction things are going. Aoba’s hips are now in the air, on his knees while his front remains placed on the bed.

Aoba’s blinking, ready to crane his body to turn around tell Koujaku to give him warning next time, he doesn’t exactly enjoy being pushed around and moved without knowing (is it really something he’s hated up until a mere moments ago when he was straining under thoughts just like these, worked up and all kinds of perversions about Koujaku’s arms and hands and the sheer strength of what could happen if Koujaku used it on him? He just wants to maintain some semblance of control on his own body), but maybe that’s Koujaku’s goal, that plan of always trying to catch him off guard and harvest all those sounds that could spill forth from his lips in barely-contained volume.

Oh, and that’s when the blue-haired male realizes that maybe in this position, it’ll be harder to muffle his own cries.

He doesn’t exactly find the luxury of contemplating just what he’s going to do when Koujaku is prying his open again, artificial cool air brushing against him, and just as he open his mouth, tries to get out some kind of words about this position, about what Koujaku has in mind, the complete exposure this position puts him in, all of it self-implodes at the end of his tongue to fall back into his throat is when Koujaku tongues a path from the top of his ass all the way down to where his hole is, continues to curve downward until it meets where his balls are.

There’s such an embarrassing sound that shoots up his esophagus and out his mouth before he can make his jaw work right to close it off. Koujaku’s fingers grip his ass, keeps him spread open, breath hot and heavy against his rarely-exposed skin, feeling his body twitch and shudder, shaking at the core in this anticipation that’s coming next. As much as Aoba wants to stop Koujaku, tell him this is awkward, it’s weird, and above all, it's unsanitary because he’s sure tongues don’t go there, the younger man can’t pull enough air into his needy lungs to produce a coherent, strung-together sentence of thought that extends beyond a few grunts of surprised pleasure.

Instead, Aoba buries his face into the mattress, grips at the nearest piece of blanket or sheets, whichever one his body can handle holding onto, as he just lets Koujaku eat him out.

Koujaku presses his face in, his fingers clench harder on Aoba’s skin, and he’s sure there’s going to be finger-pressed bruises there, as colorful as petals pasted to his skin, blooming under his fingers with pressurized nourishment, and Aoba thinks about that briefly, feels this low kindle of possessiveness that slicks the bottom of his stomach, crawls and crouches through his body because it’s just for him, those marks are just for Koujaku to see and for Aoba to know about, no one else to know about, to see, it’s their private thing and that stokes the heat that tries to pierce his veins and get inside his body faster that way.

The older man does it again, licking a trail down to his hole, presses his tongue flat again it, doesn’t go inside, doesn’t do anything but linger there, hot and wet against the blue-haired male, lingering enough to give Aoba a sense of what will come but doesn’t give into the urge to do it now. The darker-haired man pulls back, keeping Aoba spread open, blowing warm against it, and knowing that the left behind saliva will heighten the feeling.

A pathetic whimper cracks Aoba's voice and vibrates outward, fingers clenching harder, resisting the urge to move his hips back, wanting to get Koujaku’s tongue in him but still hesitant about the act of this, little thoughts that bounce around the inside of his skull amidst the ever-increasing white nose and static, but Koujaku is going so slow, enough that it slowly makes Aoba feel like he’s becoming desperate, for more of Koujaku’s tongue to press against him, inside him, all around until Aoba is nothing more than extension of the older man.

Koujaku shoves in harder, begins to lick at him in more firm strokes as if he’s gaining confidence, spurred on by the low sounds that keen from the younger man’s throat. He’s back to sliding his tongue from the top of the crease of Aoba’s backside, nails nearly pressing into the skin as he holds Aoba open, and puts enough pressure to slightly breach the younger man when Koujaku’s tongue runs down Aoba’s hole, but doesn’t go in, lingers just enough to give slight pressure before Koujaku pulls away.

In this position, Aoba can’t really do much, not with the way his body has been positioned, with his arms useless and can only handle holding onto something as Koujaku languidly explores him with his tongue, and god, he wants to something, fucking anything to get Koujaku to stop being a tease, knowing Koujaku’s looking to draw out noise from him. He’s flashed with all those times when Koujaku called his voice sweet and beautiful and kinds of endearments that are meant to slow down his resistance and stop him from thinking about it, but he can’t stop, he can’t stop the feeling of being so wanton that it sort of puts him off.

(He flushes again, thinking about it, but thankfully, Koujaku’s tongue is there to push away all thoughts and all musings that are potentially distracting.)

Koujaku pushes in harder, not holding back, and thrusts his tongue in partially, wriggles it, testing just how he’s going to go about it, and he’s back to retreating. Aoba wants to look behind, see what Koujaku’s doing—it’s not the thought of wanting to watch Koujaku, see what the older man is doing to his body, but it’s the mere curiosity of how Koujaku is doing this, wanting to see just how affected the older man is becoming just by doing this.

The tattooed man pushes in harder, thrusts his tongue in as far as it can go, rubbing against Aoba’s inner walls, all the while his fingers continue to bite into the pale flesh it’s gripping, and Aoba jerks, a moan scraping the inside of his mouth as it comes out, a heady gasp on his lips, chest heaving, and a full-bodied throb he gets, traveling down to his dick, which has been leaking at a leisure pace.

There’s not much he can do other than lay in this position and let Koujaku continue. The other man is putting more force behind his thrusts with his tongue; trying to push his face in as far as it can go, getting his tongue to reach the places that Aoba feels it the most, and there’s spit that leaks from him, drips down and over his balls, but Koujaku isn’t concerned with how messy everything’s starting to become, more concerned with getting in as far as he can get.

Aoba’s knees are starting to scrape against the bed, the force behind Koujaku’s movements starting to push him up the bed, move him into a different position. However, Koujaku pulls him back, keeps him there, tugging on Aoba’s hips, bringing them back to his face and Koujaku buries his face in again, sucking on the rim of Aoba’s hole, traces it with his tongue, gets spit to drip down even more, and latches his mouth back onto it before thrusting his tongue back in.

Koujaku continues to eat Aoba out with such determination and there’s nothing for Aoba to grind his hips against, there’s no relief for his cock, hard and with precum that collects against the head, but there’s that burn that laces into the spaces between his vertebrae and collects there until he feels like everything inside his body is going to burn up, suffocate him and collapse his lungs, and sure, everything continues to build up, with Koujaku’s tongue pushing along the feeling, so much so that the younger male thinks that he could possibly come from it—it doesn’t feel like it’s impossible with the way everything builds pressure inside his body.

As much as Aoba’s getting from Koujaku’s tongue, there’s a part of his mind that begins with low, sultry tones about how much better would it be if it were Koujaku’s dick, how he could reach in deeper, farther, touch all those places that’ll make the blood inside his veins sing and evaporate with how much heat it’ll give his body, and it’ll make him feel that moment of completion that will shove him under the surface waters of oblivion to float endlessly through a place time and space has no influence over.

Aoba wouldn’t consider himself needy—he quite likes being independent, a provider for himself and others, but this, in this collective moment with Koujaku’s tongue touching in places and ways he would never have considered, he thinks that maybe this, just this once, he’d be okay with asking, with letting Koujaku hear his voice and telling him everything and anything that Aoba wants and needs and desires for.

Koujaku finally pulls away, saliva down his chin and drips onto the mattress below and instead, replaces his tongue with his fingers. He doesn’t push in, doesn’t even breach just a small amount, but more of letting his fingers linger there, feeling the mess that he’s left behind, how sloppy-wet Aoba is, and the position he’s got Aoba in, and Aoba is trying to gather the shards of his voice and put them back together enough to make a request for Koujaku to do something, anything.

(Aoba thought he was close, so close to coming but he realizes now, he wasn’t, maybe halfway there.)

The saliva won’t last long, they both know it, but that still doesn’t stop Koujaku’s fascination with it, one of which Aoba doesn’t understand, and he makes a weak sound, Koujaku’s name falling his lips without much behind it, still coming down from the after effects of Koujaku shoving his tongue into him.

Koujaku places his hands back on Aoba’s waist, Aoba’s voice giving way to a chortling sound, and there’s Koujaku's tongue again, slow and languid, making its way back into him, and Aoba gasps, bites down into the sheets below his mouth as Koujaku does leisure strokes with his tongue, taking his time this to spread Aoba open on his tongue. The older man’s thumbs find the rim of Aoba’s opening, presses them almost in, just enough to pull Aoba open even more, of which a blush sweeps across the fair skin of his face, and the younger man burying his face into the blankets to muffle his voice.

Koujaku’s tongue fills him again, Koujaku tilting his head at different angles to get the best room for getting inside the blue-haired male. Aoba’s hand grips somewhere along the bed, moving down until it’s level with his head, pulling sheets along with its movements, and Aoba nearly breaks in half with the slow build of pressure inside his gut and at the base of his spine, this charring inside his chest. Koujaku’s opening him to the farthest Aoba thinks he can stretch, and he’s nearly sobbing into the sheets clenched between his teeth, shoulders heaving with every shaky intake of breath, his lungs overheated in their need for more oxygen for his blood’s thick demand.

Koujaku shoves all of what he can get of his tongue inside Aoba, wriggles it, swirling it, gets Aoba so fucking wet inside and that snaps the line of Aoba’s concentration and sight and he’s spiraling down, and that’s his voice that can’t stop emerging from his mouth in waves, crashing against his teeth as it makes its way outside, and his hips are hitching, pushing back into the warm touch of Koujaku’s mouth, wanting his tongue farther inside.

Koujaku continues to go at such a dilatory pace but he continues to push his face into Aoba’s ass, still puts enough strain on Aoba’s knees when he pushes forward, Aoba’s body not sliding as much previously. Koujaku trails his tongue up to the top of Aoba’s ass and back down, and swipes against Aoba’s balls again. Aoba’s hips are noticeably moving, hitching, and Aoba almost screams into the mattress with how hard he is, how fucking turned on he is, how much he just needs, drowning inside his skin with need so thick it’s suffocating his lungs until they’re burning. Koujaku pulls back again but not before one last suck to Aoba’s rim, thoroughly wet with his spit, and Aoba knows Koujaku is looking at him, at that place, where his saliva coats him, and sure, this would cause Aoba to tell him to stop, to not keep looking at him that way, but he can’t figure out any sound to reproduce from his raw throat, he can’t seem to concentrate on anything but the ghost of Koujaku’s tongue inside him.

Instead, there’s hands back on his waist and really, does Koujaku want to do it again, eat him out until Aoba thinks he’ll actually cry—that’s not the case, not with how he’s maneuvering Aoba’s body, turning him around and lays him down on the bed, moving back over Aoba, blocking his view of anything and everything that extends outside of Koujaku’s body.

Koujaku’s hand comes up, presses against Aoba’s stomach to curve under his waist, pushes up the shirt on Aoba’s chest until the shirt is bunched back under his arms, and his hands settle on Aoba’s hipbones, treating them as though they’re handles. Koujaku leans down, kisses at Aoba’s chest, down his chest, just a series of kisses that are light in affection and wonder, trails down to Aoba’s stomach, kisses the flat of it, follows its movements with every inhale of Aoba’s lungs, pulling back in time to catch the exhale.

Aoba knows he’s a mess, he knows how he’ll look to Koujaku, but his mind is fuzzy, cloudy with desire in the form of smoke and dust that blows over his senses so thickly it traps him inside, inhaling more desire into his lungs for his body to feed on and there isn’t much Aoba can do but merely choke on it.

But Koujaku’s on the move again, lifting his head, moving toward Aoba’s mouth and the hazel-eyed man knows it’s coming, knows just where Koujaku’s mouth has been, what his tongue was just caressing but Aoba can’t resist, and as much as a part of his mind is recoiling because of where it's been, Aoba still accepts the kiss, letting Koujaku’s tongue enter his mouth, slide along the inside, letting the older man touch and taste and collect all of Aoba’s taste on his tongue to feed it back to the younger man, let him understand what Koujaku tastes.

Koujaku’s body is moving back and off to the side, his hand reaching under the pillow above Aoba’s head, the blue-haired man knows exactly what hos boyfriend is going for. His body had begun to come down from the pleasure that pressed against his flesh, but with Koujaku pulling out a half-crumpled half-used bottle of lube, his body ignites at the ends of his nerves in excitement and expectancy of what will happen next.

Koujaku’s back in his line of sight, his mouth on his forehead, kisses lightly at the slight sheen of sweat that slicks the skin there and pulls back, opening the cap, and Aoba knows what comes next, doesn’t really think about it, just lets Koujaku do whatever he wants to his body as long as it’ll culminate all the desire that coasts along his veins and clings to his lungs to make it heavier and harder for Aoba to breathe. Koujaku’s using his non-lubed fingers to lift one of Aoba’s legs, bends it at the knee, scooting upward until Aoba’s foot presses flat against the mattress.

Aoba realizes that Koujaku hasn’t taken off his (Koujaku’s) shirt or that Koujaku’s unbuttoned his pants somewhere along the way when Aoba wasn’t aware.

There are fingers at his opening and Aoba sighs at the remembrance of this, the act of it, and Koujaku’s fingers stroke around him, swirl around the rim, and presses against it, just enough pressure for Aoba to feel it, to know what the intent is but doesn’t go any farther. It would be a problem for Aoba if he were in a different state of mind, one that isn’t feeding from his body or robbing him of rational thought, he’d be protesting Koujaku’s teasing, giving irritated stares and thinking about taking control of the situation if he weren’t so unfortunately embarrassed by being perceived as a pervert or something along those lines.

This time, Aoba pushes into the touch, lets Koujaku know just how much he wants it, how much he fucking _aches_ , and this must catch the tattooed man off guard because there’s this sound that falls from his lips into the air for Aoba to catch and this time, Koujaku spares him of what could have been a long, lengthy process of Koujaku teasing him.

Koujaku is merciful, must be after seeing how strung out Aoba became just from his Koujaku’s tongue in his ass, and Koujaku looks eager enough to not draw it out and that’s right, Aoba forgot how fervent Koujaku moved during it, how enthusiastic he became when eating Aoba out, and that must mean it did something to the older male, and—

Aoba’s thoughts cut in half when Koujaku slides in one finger, hits the first knuckle, to the second, and down to the base of Koujaku’s finger. Aoba might have gasped, not too sure what his body wants to do anymore, too wrapped up in the synapses of his nerves and body and all of it colliding together in this combination that shouldn’t work at all, it should be driving him up a nearby wall but this seems to be one of those exceptions. Koujaku’s finger presses in easier than what it should be, there isn’t as much resistance as there normally would be—oh, right, Koujaku did spend a lengthy amount of time loosening him up with his tongue. Still, it’s almost a marvel, Koujaku taking that time to make sure he’s loosened, even if he spent a lengthy time making sure Aoba was thoroughly under the guidance of his tongue.

Aoba watches as Koujaku descends down, hair sliding off his shoulders, touches lightly against Aoba’s skin before Koujaku’s mouth meets with his own, opening his mouth and allowing Koujaku to enter, meeting with his tongue, and a lazy movement of their tongues goes unhurried, all the while Koujaku continues to press his finger into Aoba’s body, moving it around, bending, curling against Aoba’s inner muscles, and Aoba has to breathe, detaching his lips from Koujaku’s, gasping, needing relief for his ever-so needy lungs. Koujaku eats those sounds that Aoba makes, and they hardly even kiss—they’re mouthing at each other, sharing the same breath, the kiss lacks direction since Aoba can barely focus on anything but Koujaku’s finger inside him.

Koujaku moves away from Aoba’s mouth, sucks kisses into the skin on Aoba’s jaw, licks under the curve of it, gathering skin between his teeth and pulling, placing another set of brightened, blood-filled marks under the skin, pulling it to the surface with harsh movements of his teeth, all the to press with his tongue, leaving behind spit-slick pathways and carving out non-invisible pathways over the surface of the hazel-eyed man’s skin.

Another finger pushes in along Koujaku’s other finger, slides in with the help of lube, creates a faint sound of squelching, and Koujaku’s busy with pasting affection onto Aoba’s neck. Koujaku’s other free hand moves toward Aoba’s thigh, caressing the heated flesh, and he fits his hand in the groove beneath Aoba’s knee and hitches it up, and Aoba knows what Koujaku is going for, finishing the movement with wrapping his leg around Koujaku’s waist as best as he can in this position.

Aoba arches into Koujaku’s touch, starting bear down on Koujaku’s fingers, all the while Koujaku gives a harsh thrust of his fingers, twisting his wrist, curls them, angles them for the best press against Aoba’s inner walls, separating his fingers as he twists his wrist. Koujaku pulls them out almost all the way, to the first knuckle before pushing them back inside, curving them and his wrist twists again, almost one hundred and eighty degrees of his wrist twisting.

Aoba’s hands are clumsy, the blood under his skin rushing through his body so fast that his hands tremble, shiver, unsteady as he reaches his hands up, slides them into Koujaku’s hair, tugging on it, his hands answering his unspoken thought about needing something to hold onto, Aoba needing some kind of stability to stop from separating and spilling all over Koujaku.

Koujaku shudders, an audible moan prying out his throat, leaning into the tight grip Aoba is forming on his hair. Aoba feeds into Koujaku’s needs, whether or not Aoba can breathe past the ever-growing desire in his throat that threatens to cut his air and his lungs seize at that chance, forces more stress onto the younger man’s throat, and Aoba is powerless when those fingers find that spot, and does the older man take advantage of that.

Sharp, short thrusts of Koujaku’s fingers fall upon that spot that makes Aoba’s voice expand so fast in his mouth and shoves passed his teeth and the spaces in between that Aoba can only retract one of his hands from Koujaku’s hair, using the back of his hand to muffle those sounds that leak passed his closed lips and gritted teeth, and his voice becomes a song on the radio and Koujaku’s fingers are the dial, trying to increase the volume that amplifies those moans that slam against the inside of Aoba’s mouth, preventing it from fully reaching that beautiful crescendo that Koujaku falls in love with every single time.

Koujaku continues to press against that spot, rubs his fingers against it, flicks his wrist with the movement of his fingers, trying to get the maximum amount of pleasure he can derive from it and pour it into Aoba’s body, writhing in sweat and trapped beneath Koujaku’s body, unable to look or pay attention to anything that doesn’t look like Koujaku, that doesn’t consist of the solid wall of flesh and heat and black inky swirls of designs of tattoos.

Koujaku’s sucking harder on the skin of Aoba’s neck, presses his teeth against the skin open-mouthed, breathing harder against it, and there’s sweat that falls from Koujaku’s hairline, down his face and under his jaw to drop onto Aoba’s over-extended flesh. There’s almost this hypertension that coils around Aoba’s body, his body buzzes with such heightened sensory input and he can’t seem to get rid of it, he can’t find a way to release it without expanding too quickly against every space available that’s on the underside of his flesh, and Aoba swears he can’t hear anything outside the roughened, heavy sounds of Koujaku’s breathing, catching against his ears, through the strands of his sweat-dampened hair.

Aoba’s ready to come, he wants it more than anything, and it’s become near impossible to keep his voice in check, and Koujaku’s name is a litany of jumbled words and sounds that increase and soar up his throat.

There, right in the pit of his stomach, heat and stardust and clouds and all gases that come together to create a supernova inside his stomach, slamming against the inside of his ribcage, threatens to crack his spin and shatter his sternum, and Aoba thinks he’s coming, his voice shortening out and he needs just a little more, just enough—

Koujaku removes his fingers from Aoba’s body and this strangled, cut off sound barely bursts forth from Aoba’s unhinged jaw, his hands shaking in Koujaku’s hair, gripping so tightly, his chest heaving with such force that has cut his orgasm.

“Aoba,” is whispered breathily into his neck, and hands on his waist pulling him down, flipping him over on his stomach, pulling his hips back, and Aoba goes with it, pliant enough to allow Koujaku free reign without much care, not when he’s shuddering and recovering from a supernova inside his stomach that has encountered some rogue black hole by this off chance. Koujaku continues to handle him until his back meets with Koujaku’s chest, molded and fitted against each other, sweat slicking the slight spaces between them where their flesh doesn’t touch, where it’s not fever-hot and nearly scalding to the touch.

Koujaku’s leaning his head on Aoba’s upper back, positioning himself, Aoba pressing back, almost no care for how he looks, and Koujaku has to stop him, gripping his hip, exerting just a small amount of force to keep Aoba still. It only serves to upsurge the lust that’s now carved into Aoba’s soul, deep-winding and interwoven so thickly around it. Just feeling Koujaku use his strength on him in this type of situation, one that Aoba became so desperate against Koujaku’s chest, unaware of it, not knowing that Aoba was thinking about it so harshly—it culminates in more sound from Aoba’s body, now a livewire of emotion and feeling.

Koujaku presses in, his cock a heated heaviness against Aoba’s opening, and all Aoba can manage is a choked off version of his name, heated and thorough with fervor, and Koujaku presses in, forces inside and it’s as though Koujaku’s making a space for himself, pushes everything aside to make sure he can make room for himself. Aoba’s arms are trembling, his body nearly breaking, his limbs nearly calcifying to break in half, and his head drops, his hair falling forward, sweat dripping at the ends of the strands.

“Are you okay, Aoba?” and that gives a shock through the smaller man’s body, not realizing just how much Koujaku’s voice has dropped, lowered with hunger and wantonness. Koujaku’s hand comes up, curves under Aoba’s jaw and turns his head, the older man’s lips on the side of his cheek, not able to completely reach his mouth without changing the angle, but Aoba settles for this touch.

“I’m,” and it’s so hard to speak, not when he’s so fucking full of Koujaku, there’s so much heat and pressure against his body, inside his throat, against his ribcage where his heart is slamming against it like they’re bars holding it captive and in a way, it is. “I’m okay,” and what Aoba wants to add is more sound, more reassurance that he’s good, he’s more than good—he’s _okay_ , and Aoba wouldn’t have any other feeling in the world that could compare to it, would trade and all that other kind of sappy information that Koujaku is good at letting falling off his tongue against Aoba’s flesh.

But he’s good and that’s all that matters.

Aoba’s pushing back, just enough to give Koujaku the message to go on, he’s free to continue, and Koujaku’s hands fall onto his hips, Koujaku’s fingers slip through the sweat that sheens there, collected in the groves there, and he pulls back and Aoba feels every withdrawing inch, every slight slide of Koujaku’s dick inside him, with the help of lube, and he thinks he can feel every detail—from the veins that run along the length, to the head of his dick that helps separate Aoba inside, and he won’t admit it, not out loud, not anywhere someone (Koujaku) can hear him, but he’s so fucking enamored by that, the close contact, the absolute comfort this kind of intimate detail proves him.

(He sounds like some goddamn pervert when he thinks about Koujaku’s dick in that way., at least, Aoba thinks so and like hell is he gonna keep thinking about it.)

Koujaku’s breath is heavy in his ear, his hands large and covering the blue-haired male’s waist, dwarfing his hips with how much they wrap around them. Koujaku thrusts harder against, pushes Aoba forward. Aoba’s not sure how long he’ll be able to keep this position, not with how much force and strength he wants to Koujaku to fuck him with, push him down face first, make him take it, make him only come to the feeling of Koujaku’s dick spreading him open and forcing against his prostate that Aoba has no choice and left with no other option but to lie there and let Koujaku do what he wants.

(Aoba swears he’s not like this, he’ll swear up and down the street that he’s never like this.)

Koujaku pulls back, grunts heavy in Aoba’s ear and it sounds so loud, encompassing all of the air around him, and Aoba is glad to let himself sink down into it, drown in it, and let his lungs fill until he’ll die in sweet bliss and oblivion without worry or care. Aoba listens to the sounds Koujaku makes, spurred on by how much Koujaku is putting into this, and Aoba’s arms are shaking, unsteady, so unsteady, and there it is, his arms snapping, unable to support himself and—

Koujaku must not have let him, grabbing him and pulling him back, and Aoba practically seated on Koujaku’s lap and it forces Koujaku’s cock deeper into him, and all the blue-haired man can do or say is one loud, unexpected but sensual moan that uproots from somewhere deep inside his lungs. Aoba’s head is practically resting on Koujaku’s shoulder, on his knees with Koujaku shifting to accommodate the new position. Koujaku’s tattooed arm winds around his upper chest, pressing him back to Koujaku’s chest and Koujaku begins to thrust again.

The rhythm runs almost into nothing, harsh, deep thrusts from Koujaku’s hips push Aoba to slide against Koujaku’s chest, feels the older man’s arm tightening around him with every thrust to keep him from falling away. Koujaku ‘s duck slides so wonderfully against the inside of Aoba’s walls, tightening, clenching around him, heavy pants falling from the wasteland that has become Aoba’s throat, nothing but sound and hunger that digs harshly into his conscious mind and overwhelms him.

Koujaku’s other hand comes up across his stomach, swipes through the mess of sweat that clings to his skin in a temporary waxy coating, and finds its holding around his waist, gripping Aoba everywhere, and Koujaku thrust harder, caught up in the moment, and with the way those fingers press into his waist, Aoba vaguely recognizes how there’s going to be bruises.

It’s going to happen soon but they can’t maintain this position, not at the rate they’re going. Aoba’s thighs are straining, Koujaku is having trouble keeping them up. The angle is fantastic, and Aoba can feel it so deep inside him, the way Koujaku reaches just right and—there, right _there_ , that spot that makes Aoba helpless against everything, and he’s moaning, almost openly, but there’s still that small restraint that stop him from completely letting go but if Koujaku keeps up, if he keeps going at this angle, that restraint will fray into nothing and snap, and the whiplash from it will be so strong that Aoba will have no choice but to cry out from it.

The world changes again, Koujaku pulling out, and Aoba’s moving against the bed, bounces once but not a second time, not with Koujaku coming down on top of him, rolling Aoba over, and gets the younger male on his back, and almost immediately does Aoba get his legs around Koujaku’s waist, slides a small amount in the sweat that adorns the skin there, and Koujaku’s sliding back in, almost effortlessly, and they resume where they left off.

Koujaku’s mouth finds his neck again, fits there as he mouths at it, not able to bring forth enough effort to use his teeth, only collects the salt there with his tongue, sweat colliding against his tongue but it’s not enough, never enough, and his mouth quickly trails the sweat-slick bottom of Aoba’s jaw, roughened pants falling against the feverish skin. Aoba’s breaths are swallowed by Koujaku’s mouth, drinks them down into his body that Aoba is actually eager to give him, as long as it’ll muffle the sounds.

Koujaku’s hands on his hips turn to near-bruising grips, fingers pressing indents into the skin, and Aoba’s fingers are in Koujaku’s hair again, gripping, pulling, tugging, all of which Koujaku is more than happy to accept, voicing his appreciation as Aoba eats away at those sounds.

Koujaku’s hips are shifting, angling themselves, trying to find that one place again that’ll make Aoba nearly destroy his own lungs with the intensity that’ll be created. It’s hard trying to perform that task, not when Aoba’s tongue is so insistent against his own, shoving against it, and the heat and suction that surrounds his cock is so fuckin’ maddening that Koujaku almost gives in to just fuck Aoba until completion, forgetting that one spot.

However, Koujaku is seeing how desperate Aoba is getting, how he’s been losing inhibitions that normally would make him scowl away from some of the things that he’s doing now, and he wants more of it, he needs to see more of it, and Koujaku’s set on finding it. Aoba’s fingers are nearly clawing at his scalp, continuing to shove into his hair, and Aoba must be getting close, if the way his half-bitten off name coming from Aoba’s lips has any indication.

With a certain shove, a position of Aoba’s hips, he finds it, and what a wonderful sound Aoba makes when Koujaku does, all high keens and gasps and, “Kouja—Kou—god,” and so completely unable to mouth around the tattooed man’s name. Aoba clings to his body, his breathing ragged, short, unable to draw in proper breaths, and that’s fine with Koujaku, the sounds becoming a desired music that Koujaku’s been yearning to listen to.

He’s close, so fucking close, but he’s waiting for that confirmation from Aoba, with those half-spluttered words from Aoba tripping all over his tongue, he waits, but he wants Aoba to possibly hurry up, that orgasm crouched low at the base of his spine, waiting for his moment of weakness.

What wonderful timing it has, those revered words, “I’m—Kouja—I’m gonna—can’t,” that Koujaku gets a hand between them, through slick bellies of heat and against Aoba’s cock, grasping it, fumbling one of two times due to the sweat that’s everywhere, and he gets a firm grip, begins to try to time his hand to keep up with his thrusts but it doesn’t quite work out that way. It’s enough, and Koujaku’s other hand seeks out one of Aoba’s, Aoba’s name falling from his lips rugged and gasping and full of need, and they grip each other, fingers clenching in between the slots, and Koujaku pins Aoba’s hand down, presses it into the bed, indents the sheets, and Koujaku thrusts harder and begins to slide Aoba against the bed, grates him against the fine lined of his sheets, and he’s close, so fucking close, and he just needs a push, _something_ to take that edge away—

Aoba’s voice erupts between them, clenching down on Koujaku’s dick, catches him off guard with the suddenness of it, making it harder for Koujaku to keep up the same erratic pace, and Aoba is arching beneath him, fingers gripping the older man’s wrist harshly, and maybe if they listen hard enough, they could hear the bones in their wrists grinding together and sliding out of place with the amount of force that goes behind the clench of their hands together.

Aoba comes first, his breath a half-garbled instance of sound and half-spoken moans, and maybe that’s Koujaku’s name thrown in there, maybe there’s something akin to just air coming out of Aoba’s mouth, but with Aoba coming, and Koujaku having pulled to watch Aoba’s body arch so fucking erotically off the bed, it does it in for Koujaku, especially with the clench of those muscles around his dick, and it pulls him into white-hot static and soundless screams around him.

Maybe they’ll actually snap their bones in their hands this time, maybe they’ll lose their fingers from the blood loss of this hold they have, neither one looking to loosen any time soon.

Maybe it’s for a good cause, maybe it’s supposed to end that way, but either way, it’s a pleasant feeling, this utter existence of theirs melted together to form a creature sewn of parts neither will want to resist loving back, and it stays that way, like they’re one single being shooting across the cosmos in a flame bright enough for illumination of the skins.

It’s sappy, it’s so full of romantic notions and musings, but even in the depths of Aoba’s mind that floats through the sky, it’s what he only wants to hear. Aoba will blame it on the pants that graze against his ears, the way his chest stutters, the way his lungs need air that’s left trapped under Koujaku’s frame, or maybe it’s the afterglow, the part where everything is forgiven and calm and stagnant beyond all measure, does Aoba let himself sink on the boat of love and enjoy the descent into calm collective.


End file.
